Guardians of Time (22 page)

There was a distinct pause on the other end
of the line, and then the woman said, “Did you say, Alexander
Callum? Director Alexander Callum?”

“Yes.” Callum drew out the ‘s’ in a
hiss.

“Do you need immediate assistance?”

“I am not in danger currently,” Callum said,
“but that could change at any time.”

“Right. Director Tate is on another line.
Can he ring you back?”

“Certainly.” Callum rattled off the number
the computer gave him.

This time it was Mark who whispered to
David. “It’s a randomized number that will cease to be valid after
twenty minutes.”

David shook his head at all that he didn’t
understand. If he’d spent the last ten years in the modern world,
he surely would have been a computer geek, but as it was, his
knowledge of computers was ten years out of date. Back at Bangor
University, when he’d opened the laptop to try to surf the
internet, Darren had had to come over and open the browser because
the interface was dramatically different from what he remembered,
even from three years ago when he’d come to Wales with Callum and
Cassie and surfed the internet from the confines of an MI-5
interrogation room.

David found it frustrating to be nearly as
out of his element here as Dad and Math. At the same time, he found
himself constantly reaching for his new phone to Google a question
that just occurred to him. If he lived here for real, he’d never
stop.

In the darkness and the snow, though it was
falling more gently in their spot within the shelter of a tree that
overhung the driveway, they waited for the callback.

“I can practically see the tech’s fingers
flying over the keyboard, trying to trace our call,” Callum
said.

“They won’t be able to. I may be rusty, but
I’m not out of the game yet,” Mark said.

“The question before us,” Callum said, “is
how they will view my return. It seemed to me the operator wasn’t
wholly surprised at my call.”

“They’ve interviewed the bus passengers by
now,” Mark said. “They have to have known you were here, and the
fact that you are calling now could be taken as a good sign that
you’re ready to come in again.”

Another minute passed before the call button
finally started flashing on Mark’s screen. Callum took in a deep
breath and then nodded to Mark, who pressed
talk
.

“Sir,” Callum said.

“Can we dispense with preliminaries?” Tate’s
voice reverberated out of the speaker, deep and commanding—and not
unlike Callum’s in tenor and tone.

“Certainly,” Callum said.

“We’ve interviewed the bus passengers at the
Black Boar. I’ve personally spoken to Jane and Carl Thomas,” Tate
said.

“How is Shane?” Callum said.

Tate paused for a count of three, which was
a really long expanse of silence over a phone line. “You did the
right thing bringing them back.”

David felt the breath he hadn’t realized
he’d been holding ease out of him.
Yes, they had done the right
thing.
It gave him some reassurance as to Tate’s motives and
character that he knew it too.

“Where’s the bus?” Tate said, back to
business.

“Parked on a rural road, out of the way,”
Callum said.

“What are you driving?”

“Let’s save that for later.” Callum then cut
straight to the point. “Have you caught the men who bombed
Cardiff’s city hall and courthouse?”

“What—” Tate paused. “That’s what you’re
calling about?”

“One of the bombers—perhaps even the man
behind it—was on the bus with us when we traveled to the Middle
Ages. His name is Lee Delaney, or at least that was the name he
went by with us. He returned to this world three months ago. You
should know that already because of the flash when he entered.”

Tate grunted into the phone. “Yes. We did
notice that. He came alone?”

It sounded to David as if the words were
departing Tate’s mouth with extreme reluctance.

“No. There should have been two flashes, one
right after the other.”

Tate grunted his assent. “We saw that. We
didn’t know what it meant.”

“Did you send men to the scene?”

“We did,” Tate said.

“Where’d Lee come in?” David said in a
whisper to Callum, who then repeated the question to Tate in a
louder voice.

“In the middle of the Menai Strait, near the
Caernarfon end. But by the time the Coast Guard arrived, he was
gone.”

The expressions on Callum’s and Mark’s faces
were as blank as David’s had to be. The Menai Strait was a
dangerous body of water under many circumstances, but it was also
swimmable in some locations. That David had dropped Lee off in
Wales meant that he could still be close by. David’s stomach
churned at the sickening thought.

“Perhaps he swam for shore,” Callum
said.

“If so, we didn’t find him—but of course, it
took a while for agents to reach the site, and we didn’t know who
or what we were looking for until now. I’d like to ask why you
believe Lee Delaney was the culprit in the bombings.”

“He brought C-4 to the Middle Ages with
him,” Callum said.

Tate drew in an audible breath and then
said, “None of the bus passengers mentioned that. You need to come
in.”

“I can’t do that, sir,” Callum said.

“We mean you no harm,” Tate said. “Surely
you must see that.”

“How are the bus passengers?” Callum said,
changing the subject. “What have you done with them?”

“We haven’t done anything with them. We
interviewed many of them tonight, as I said.” Tate gave a tsk
through his teeth. “The inconsistencies in their stories are large
enough to drive a bus through, though they’re in agreement that
they spent the last year in the Middle Ages. How’s David? They did
all say that he’s here with you.”

Both Mark and Callum glanced at David, who
gave a short laugh.

“He’s fine,” David said into the
microphone.

“We’d like to meet with you and your
father,” Tate said.

“I’d love a working relationship with you,”
David said, “but so far you haven’t given me any reason to trust
you.”

There was another few seconds of silence on
Tate’s end, and then he said, “Mistakes were made.”

“Yeah, lots of them over a long period of
time,” David said. “Appointing Callum as director of the Project
was a great idea, but how long did that last? Two years and then,
when push came to shove, you bailed on him.”

“Political realities—”

“Become my problem when they’re your
problem. I understand that,” David said. “These days I know all
about politics. I’m having issues with the King of France and the
Pope, for starters. It would be nice if I got help from you every
time I showed up here instead of being chased halfway across
Wales—or worse, locked in a windowless room.”

“Young man—”

“I’m the King of England,” David said. “You
may call me
sire
or not at all.”

Callum put a hand on David’s shoulder while
Mark muted the call.

“Sorry,” David said. “He was ticking me
off.”

“I noticed,” Callum said.

“What about a trade?” Mark said. The
connection to Tate was still muted.

Callum eyed him. “What kind of trade?”

“Offer to trade me and everything I know
about the Middle Ages, including the
traveling
David and his
family do, for a couple of microhydro generators and an industrial
magnet. I think I should get you guys a couple more Kevlar vests
too, since David’s is still buried in the rubble at Canterbury.
They also need to promise not to prevent your return to the Middle
Ages when you’re ready to go,” Mark said, “and not to interfere
with Ted and Elisa’s return to the United States.”

David goggled at him. “Mark, no—”

“I want to stay here. Tate will see our
agreement to this as a huge concession on our part, but this is no
sacrifice for me. I’ve done okay back there, but in the hours we’ve
been here, I have come to realize that I’m a modern man.” He hefted
the laptop. “This is what I do. Just as when Callum and Cassie were
left behind, I can help you more from here than from there.”

Callum pressed his lips together, ignoring
the “Callum? Callum?” coming from the speaker, and David said,
“Mark—”

“Let me do this, sire.”

“You are a grown man, and neither of us
command you here,” David said.

“And hardly at all there, for that matter.”
Callum managed a slight smirk, though his eyes remained
troubled.

Mark pressed
talk
again. “Sir, this
is Mark Jones.”

“Jones!” Tate was all enthusiasm. “You came
too?”

David noticed that at no point in their
conversation had Tate questioned the existence of their alternate
medieval universe. Even with the obvious disappearance and
reappearance of the bus, David hadn’t necessarily expected such an
outcome. People can be stubborn and blind long after it made any
sense to be so, and there was no reason Tate couldn’t have chosen
that route. He had been involved in the cancelling of Callum’s
project after all.

“Clearly.” Mark’s tone was wry and also
confident. David heard in his voice the belief that he could
withstand the machinations within MI-5, and that he was making the
right choice. “We propose a trade.” And then Mark outlined in
detail the brief discussion he’d just had with David and Callum.
Rachel had already packed medical supplies, including a simple
microscope her father had kept in storage, in the back of the van,
so they didn’t need help with that. “Do we have a deal?”

“We do. When and where should we meet?” To
his credit, Tate didn’t hesitate.

“Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.” Mark
pressed mute again in order to say to Callum, “How about in the
Tesco parking lot?”

“That’s a sucky spot,” David said before
Callum could answer. “A zillion sightlines and no way to cover them
all.”

“It’ll be deserted on Christmas Day,” Callum
said.

“Where won’t be deserted on Christmas Day?”
David said.

“Bangor Cathedral?” Mark said.

“Lots of civilians there.” David shrugged.
“At nine in the morning on Christmas Day, it’ll be the only place
in Bangor with people.”

But Callum shook his head. “I don’t want
innocents in harm’s way if Tate’s motives aren’t pure. I have a
better idea.”

He unmuted the call with Tate. “We’ll meet
you on the bridge at the motorway interchange just to the west of
the Bangor Tesco, heading north right after the exit for
Bangor/Caernarfon.”

“Callum—” David began.

Callum muted the call again and looked at
David. “We’ll bring the van and the bus. We can park the bus on the
bridge going north and stop the van farther down the motorway going
the other way so Cassie can pull past the meeting site, and we can
get in and out quickly if this goes pear-shaped.”

“Don’t tell Tate that last bit,” David said
to Mark, who then pressed
talk
again and finished Callum’s
explanation. Tate agreed and disconnected the call.

Mark gave a satisfied nod. “If Lee is really
here, all the more reason to leave me behind because I know what he
looks like. I can help catch him.”

Callum tapped a finger against his lips.
“You always say, David, that you come in where you’re meant to. Up
until now, I’ve been assuming we’re here because of your aunt’s
family and Rachel’s father.”

David nodded. “But now you’re thinking we’re
here because of Lee.”

Llywelyn

L
lywelyn hadn’t
stood a watch in many years, but at his own request, Darren had
woken him at four, as indicated by the timepiece beside the bed.
But even if under normal circumstances he was no longer the one
asked to guard a castle, it was an hour that was familiar to him.
He and Goronwy had been known to rise this early simply to clear
his desk and his mind of all that was required for the successful
running of his kingdom.

Llywelyn had forced David and Christopher,
who’d stuck like a leech to David’s side, both of them talking
nonstop, away from the computer to go to bed at midnight, and he’d
checked on David again before coming outside. He was sound asleep
face down on a mattress on the floor on the first floor of the
tower. Llywelyn hoped he could stay that way for a few more
hours.

He didn’t even know what time Meg and Elisa
had gone to sleep. At midnight, they’d still been up talking, and
Llywelyn hadn’t had the heart to shoo either of them to bed. They
hadn’t seen each other in more than eight years and might never see
each other again. One night without sleep was a small price to pay
for the pleasure of reacquainting themselves with one another.

As he stared up at the tower, silhouetted
against the night sky, Llywelyn wished Goronwy could be here to see
what had become of his beloved Aber. On one hand, it was good to
know the worst. On the other, the Menai Strait still stretched
before him, even if these modern meddlers had dredged the Lavan
Sands in order to allow large ships to pass through the strait
instead of taking the time to go around Anglesey. He believed Meg
absolutely when she told him that the Aber River still ran to the
west, and his mountains still rose up in the darkness behind the
castle. His grandfather had claimed the title,
Prince of Wales
and Lord of Snowdon
, and it was that legacy that had Llywelyn’s
boots stuck as deeply in the soil of Wales here as in his own
universe.

The snow had stopped falling sometime before
midnight, but as Llywelyn stood watching, it started again,
silently settling on his leather hat, which he’d borrowed from
Abraham Wolff. The hat had a wide, stiff brim, just right for
keeping the snow out of his face.

“You can keep it if you like.”

Llywelyn turned to see Abraham standing in
the doorway, faintly silhouetted against the electric light glowing
from the kitchen, which lay deeper inside the house.